Crap it, I've been Reaped
by Prime-Minister-Holmes
Summary: It is the two hundred and twenty-first annual Hunger Games. John Watson is the unassuming survivor from District Twelve and Sherlock Holmes is the bored genius from District One. With all of the odds stacked up against them, will they manage it out alive?
1. Chapter 1

John

"John, John wake up, it's Reaping Day," a soft voice whispered into my ear. Oh, right. Today is the Reaping. When every district is forced to give up one girl and one boy between the ages twelve and eighteen to fight an epic battle to survive. They called this brutal tradition the Hunger Games. Established two hundred and twenty-one years ago, it was created as a reminder of how the districts had rebelled against the capital. Two more years, two more years and I am no longer eligible to compete. But today is my older sister Harriet's last year. His name is put in forty-seven times, mine twenty-eight. Hopefully the tesserae my mother will collect from this will help her through if one of us is to be picked.

"Come on, wake up, you slept in. It's time to get dressed." Harry murmured, shoving my shoulder with her broomstick.

"Ohhhh, tell those darned Peacekeepers to stuff it. That suit is the most uncomfortable thing I have ever worn." I whined, crawling out of my small cot and stumbling towards the makeshift wardrobe in the corner of the room.

"Ah, loosen up Johnny, at least you don't look eighty years old in your outfit." Harry winked, pulling out her dress. It was covered in a hideous floral pattern, and the lacy sleeves were horribly ripped. I chuckled and retrieved my gray jacket and dress pants. Mother knocked on the door.

"Come in!" Harry giggled. Mother stepped over the threshold into our room.

"How are ya doing this morning guys? Not nervous I hope." She tapped one blackened finger against her nose. As far as I knew, we were actually the most light-spirited family in District Twelve, all of the other children were grim faced and sullen, and their parents even more so. Not that there was much to be happy about, you know, starving half the time, sickness, and poverty. Despite all of that, Mother was happy. Her laugh was like the trill of a bird, her smile luminous like the glow of a lantern. Everyone adored her. She had become somewhat less jovial after the death of Father, but it was her light heartedness that had gotten Harry and I through.

"No, it's not like there's a chance that we could be picked to battle a group of bloodthirsty children to win riches for our district." Harry quipped, pulling on her dress.

"And if you are picked, I am sure you do just that. Survivors, that's what the Watson's are." she stated matter-of-factly. I buttoned my jacket, trying to dismiss the intense discomfort originating in the small of my back.

"Surviving would be easier if my suit wasn't so friggin' stiff." Mother laughed at me, straightened her own dress, and left the room.

"Quit complaining Johnny, at least you can walk like a normal human being. I feel like I am abou to fall over." Harry teetered into the kitchen, unsteady on her three inch heels. I sighed, Harry had a chance in the games, but I had no special talents besides those that would help me stay alive in the woods. I can't shoot, punch, or throw. I have a considerable strength but no skills to use it for, and not being the sharpest tool in the shed isn't helping.

"Johnny! Breakfast!" Mother called.

My hands were shaking in their pockets as we strolled down the cracked pavement in order to reach the stage where the Reaping will take place. Mother kissed the tops of our heads and took her place in the audience, Harry walked off to join her group, and I mine. I winced at the Peacekeeper who had pricked my finger and stood in my section. All conversations were silenced as Sally Donovan stepped onto the stage. Her nut-brown skin washed out by the garish pink dress and gaudy jewelry she wore. She tapped a dainty finger ag ainst the microphone and spoke in her sadistically cheery voice.

"Welcome to the two hundred and twenty-first annual Hunger Games, and may the odds be ever in your favor! Our dearest friends in the Capital have sent us a special video for us all to watch this year, shall we see?" Sally chirped, waving her manicured hands about as she spoke. A video started to play on the screen to her right. It was horribly depressing, but Sally seemed to enjoy it. I could see her mouthing along with the narrator through the last few lines.

"Oh, I just love that!" she exclaimed, "Now, for this years tributes, as always, ladies first." she dipped her hand into the glass bowl full of names. She withdrew one folded slip, petting it with her left thumb.

"Jennifer Wilson!" several people in the audience gasped, such reaction was customary when a twelve year old was selected, "Come on up dear, don't be shy. Stand right next to me." Sally waved at the timid little girl that was approaching the stairs.

"Okay, now for the boys." she started once Jennifer was situated at her side, "Ah, let's see, looks like, John Hamish Watson!" I froze, _it can't be!_ I thought frantically. I shuffled through the throng of people. When I reached the stage, Sally flashed another brilliant smile.

"Ah, here he is! Quite a looker ain't he?" She helped me up the stairs and placed me next to her. The rest of District Twelve looked at us somberly, their eyes flitting away whenever I caught them. Peacekeepers joined us on the stage, guiding us into the backroom where tributes were taken.

Sherlock

I rolled over in my bed, staring at the clock on my bedside table. Reaping Day. Brilliant. Now I have to sit through some hare-brained ceremony of children being carted off to their slaughter. Someone knocked on my door.

"Yes?" I growled into my pillow, "Come on in. You're not disturbing me or anything. It's just the day when my name is put in a bowl with the chance of being chosen so that I can go be murdered by a group of bloodthirsty mongrels!"

"Sherlock, don't be like that! Your name is only in there three times!" Mycroft stepped into my room, sitting down on the edge of my bed, "Get dressed. Please do not wear that navy sweatshirt you so obviously adore. It really is quite hideous."

"I shall wear whatever I deem fit for this occasion. I could go nude if so I please." I spat in response, burrowing into the duvet. Mycroft sighed audibly walked out of the room, closing the door behind him with a soft _click_. I swung my legs over the side of the bed, regretting last night having one that I slept on. My wardrobe was filled with a variety of clothing, ranging from Capital freak Technicolor, to District 12 gray. I selected a deep purple silk shirt and some black dress pants. It wasn't too showy, but expensive. Being that I do live in District One, luxury is horribly important to us. We gluttonous pigs do love to spend money and train our children to become murderous psychopaths. I was no exception to that training. Even at age five I could wield a sword and throw a knife, but I was never really one of them. More than anything I wish that I could join District Five, put my genius to good use. But no, I have to sit here and train while my brain rots from disuse. None of the other children my age ever acknowledge my presence, I am tall and thin, not stout and muscled, I am smart and clever, not stupid and brutal. Chances were, if, against all odds, I were picked, no one would volunteer. Which would be really very strange, and a declaration of how they want me to get killed. I really, honestly don't care though. I actually kind of looked forward to getting Reaped. I would be able to leave these freaks and hang out with more freaks. The Capital freaks. Deductions galore!

"SHERLOCK! GET OUT HERE!" my mother shrieked from down the stairs.

"COMING!" I quickly pulled on my shoes and sped out the door.

The sky was a mournful gray when we arrived at the square. Dozens of families were already milling around by the time my family had arrived. I filed into the the line of people my age and waited for the Peacekeepers to prick my finger. Once that had been done, I stood in the pen where the boys were kept. Hope Jefferson practically skipped onto the stage, fiery orange curls bouncing as she approached the microphone. She tapped her finger against it until the crowd fell silent.

"Happy Hunger Games! And may the odds be ever in your favor!" Hope sang, spreading her long arms as if to encompass us in a gigantic hug, "As always, ladies first!" She pulled a folded slip of paper out of the glass bowl.

"Irene Addler! Come on up darling! Don't be shy!" _Poor little Irene, _I thought sarcasticly as a small girl sashayed confidently onto the stage. Sure she was nice, and less stupid than the rest of District One, but she was brutal and cruel, not to mention hell-bent on winning the Games.

"I volunteer in place of Irene Addler!" a sweet and distinctly female voice called from the crowd. She stepped up onto the stage and Irene scowled, and stomped back to the pen.

"Oh how exciting! What is your name?" Hope cooed.

"Molly Hooper." Molly whispered

"Well hello Miss Hooper! And now for the boys!" Hope groped through the slips, before pulling her prize from the bowl, "William Sherlock Scott Holmes! Quite a mouthful there eh?" I suppressed a smile. It really could not have gone any other way.

John

I leaned my head against the cold glass window of the train as it sped off to the Capital. Jennifer, or as she prefers, Jenny, poked at a plate of vegetables beside me. She had immediately hit it off with Sally. The two girls shared a mutual love of hot pink. So they had spent an hour discussing the different shades. Not that I had minded much. The conversation seemed to help calm her nerves, she hadn't cried since.

"Oh! Fifteen minutes until we arrive!" Sally exclaimed, walking through the threshold of the dining car, "Oh, and sorry darlings, but your mentor is feeling a little under the weather. She should be better by tomorrow."

"Do we get to see people!" Jenny squealed.

"Yes of course! Make sure to smile and wave, you need to impress all of your potential sponsors!" Sally glided over and sat down with us, "Come on John! Don't be so sullen!"

"Okay, I'll try." I forced a smile.

"Now, why don't you watch the replays for all the other Reapings while we wait. One should always know their enemies." Sally clicked on the telly in the corner. First was District One. I watched, enthralled as the Capital lady pulled a slip from the glass bowl.

"Irene Addler! Come on up darling! Don't be shy!" a small girl stepped onto the stage. There were several cheers of encouragment that she ignored. Someone volunteered for her, strangely, it seemed to be out of kindness and not greed for power. Little Molly Hooper looked like the kind of person to do that. The Capital lady fished through the second glass bowl.

"Well hello Miss Hooper! And now for the boys! William Sherlock Scott Holmes! Quite a mouthful there eh?" People jeered and laughed, no one volunteered. None of the other children sounded particularly fond of Holmes. A few seconds later I saw why. When the camera zoomed in on his face I gasped. He was, well, for lack of a better word, beautiful. Thick curly black hair, catlike blue-green eyes, full mouth, and cheekbones that could cut glass graced the screen. He was so thin and lean. His arms were evenly muscled (unlike the body builders District One usually produced), his legs long and graceful as he strode onto the stage. Despite all of this, there was a cold impassiveness lurking behind his gemstone eyes. Holmes stared out at the crowd as if they were all idiot children. As if he was above them. He looked as if he had accepted his fate and had reconciled it, I wanted to slap him. Sure people go into the games knowing that they are probably going to die. But Holmes was going into the games accepting that, he was resigning himself to slaughter. He was thwarting the games! Based on the massive intelligence that glittered in his eyes he knew exactly what he was doing. Molly was staring up at him with nothing short of awe. I didn't really pay attention to the rest of the video. I only caught snippets. There was a Clara and a James from Two, Sebastian and Violet from Three, Gregory and Mary from Six (Four and Five were lost on me), Carl and Janine from Seven, and I can remember no one else. I sat there, in a new jumper and slacks, staring out the window as we pulled into the Capital.

Sherlock

Mycroft strode easily into the room where I had been led by the Peacekeepers.

"Oh, brother mine, please try to not get killed. Despite what you believe our hearts would break if you were to perish." He intoned nonchalantly.

"There is no point in trying to hide it Mycroft, you're glad to see me go. No more pesky children to interrupt your experiments." I replied, equally apathetic and uncaring. Mycroft surprised me by grabbing my shoulders.

"You can't give up Sherlock. Make the Capital care. Make them realize that you are a person and not a playing piece." His eyes were shining, and I didn't understand.

"What? Why do you care all of a sudden? I was nothing for our entire childhood and then as soon as something interesting happens, you're crying. Why care now?" I tried to sound as if I wasn't bothered by this display of emotion from my brother.

"I have always cared, there just was never a good enough reason to tell you." And the emotion was gone. His face was once again impassive.

"Good luck Sherlock, and may the odds be ever in your favor."

I was doing my best not to notice how Molly was staring at me the entire trip to the Capital. Not the stare I usually received from the children who hated me, but one I was never subject to before. We had watched the other Reapings, and knew that James Moriarty from District Two. Though only one possible ally presented themselves to me. It was John Watson from Twelve, a stout little boy with sandy blonde hair and an obvious medical background.

"Hey Sherlock, are you nervous?" Molly asked timidly. Tightening her pony tail and looking up at me expectantly.

"Why would I be nervous?"

"Well we are being carted off to our slaughter. It's likely that we won't ever see our families again, and we have to get prettied up by a bunch of clowns." She spat, her voice quite forceful for someone so delicate.

"I concede to the point that getting 'prettied' up will be awful." Molly snorted, and Hope walked in, obnoxious heels clacking against the linoleum.

"We're almost there!" Hope clapped her hands and shot us a white-toothed grin. Sure enough, the train had just arrived in the Capital. Eccentrically dressed residents waved their multi-colored hands and whistled through make-up slathered lips. I inwardly cringed as the train shuddered to a halt, and the doors opened. Hope steered Molly and I towards the crowd, whispering about how we should behave. Unsurprisingly, I felt like not smiling. Molly on the other hand, had the part down. She waved and blew kisses, all the while maintaining a convincing look of glee on her face. I scowled at the throng of citizens; this only seemed to encourage their efforts to take as many pictures as they could. Several Peacekeepers frog-marched us up the path and into the Tribute quarters.

John

I fell, exhausted, onto the ridiculously soft bed that had been provided for me by the Capital. A small sigh escaped my lips as I burrowed beneath thick duvet. Being from District Twelve, Jenny and I got the penthouse. Not that that was of any comfort to me, but, it was pretty nice. Everything was completely unlike anything I had experienced before. My family hadn't been the poorest, but we weren't exactly well-off. Poor Jenny had literally fainted when she was shown her rooms. The crowd had loved her. I gave my best effort to look likeable, but chances were I didn't make a very good impression. Tomorrow the Tribute parade was going to take place. Nearly the entire day was going to be spent on making us look good. I had never even bathed in clean water before! Hope had lectured us all through dinner about how to smile correctly and walk straight. Then she dived into this whole lesson on manners and the importance of knowing how to tell the difference between all seventeen different fork varieties. How that that was going to help us survive was lost on me. I listened, or pretended to listen, throughout the entire thing. Hope seemed to appreciate that, giving me a pat on the cheek and whining about what a shame it was that mentors had been banned. My stylist, Skye, was apparently the talk of the town. He was acclaimed for his creative outlook and ingenuity, almost as famous as his girlfriend, Pearl, who styled for District One. I was just glad it wasn't some crazy psychopath dressing me up in a frilly outfit and sticking me on a carriage. Well, I don't know, I've never met Skye. I gazed out of the large window, watching the stars until I sank into a deep and fitful slumber.

Sherlock

I awoke to a very excited Sally shaking my shoulder earnestly.

"Come on, breakfast! Then you get to meet Pearl! She's your stylist!" her annoyingly chipper tone put me in a bad mood, and it was only nine o' clock. Molly was already seated and eating by the time I had trudged down to join her.

"Mornin' Sher'ock!" she said through a mouthful of French toast. I shook my head and sat across from her, surveying the selection.

"Go ahead and get something darlin'. Don't be shy!" Hope encouraged, waving her fork like a wand in front of my face. The collection of dense and heavy food turned my stomach.

"Not hungry." I choked out, taking a quick sip of warm tea.

"Nonsense! You are already a twig! A little extra weight wouldn't do you any harm in the games." Hope reasoned, narrowing her baby blue eyes.

"Not. Hungry." I pushed my plate away and stalked over to the sitting room and began to watch the news. Only an hour into it, Hope came in a turned it off.

"It's time to start getting ready! These things seem to take longer every year!" she practically skipped over to me, grabbing my hand, and then proceeding to drag me out of the room.

"On a scale of one to ten, how necessary is this?" I whined, trudging along behind Hope, "Where is Molly

anyway?"

"Eleven, and she is already with her stylist!" she tutted, "Pearl will do a good job with you, you've quite the appeal under all that _bristleliness_." I sighed, and walked through the door Hope just opened for me, "Here you are darling, listen to Pearl's crew, and they will get you ready to meet her." I sat in the cold room for nearly five minutes after Hope had left, then a group of people practically skipped in, chattering on about the latest fashions. One woman with pea-green skin and light pink hair approached me. _Happily married for three years, had toast for breakfast, seven cats, on a strict diet, _I quickly deduced.

"Oh, he'll do just nicely. Look at those cheekbones. Mmmm, whadaya' think Glamour?" she ran a pudgy finger down my cheek, and it took all of my willpower not to flinch away in disgust. A tall, muscled man with a chocolate complexion stirred behind her.

"I dunno' Emmy, we should probably just stick with the basics right now. I haven't seen anyone like him. Don't even put any powder on yet. Pearl is the expert. She hasn't let us in on her plan yet." Glamour shrugged, and began to chew the tip of his thumb, occasionally batting his brutally magenta lashes. Emmy sighed.

"Alright, let's get you washed up!" she enthused, "Take your clothes off." I nearly fainted from shock.

"What!?"

Several self-deprecating hours later, the odd group had finished with me. My legs, underarms, back, and chest had all been waxed, my eyebrows plucked and darkened along with my eyelashes, and several creams had been applied to my skin to apparently make it _soft._ Each stylist had a different specialty, Vanity did dyes, Precious did exfoliantes, Emmy did make-up (which hadn't been needed), and Glamour did hair removal. Now I was standing, naked and alone, in a small room waiting for Pearl to come inspect me. Finally, the thick metal door creaked open. A tall, lean woman sashayed in, resembling a bird of paradise more than a human. Wicked intelligence flashed behind slate grey eyes that were obscured by three inch long turquoise false lashes.

"You will do very nicely," Pearl observed, looking me up and down, "Thin, but not scrawny, pretty, but not delicate, enticing, but most definitely alien." She circled me like a vulture would its catch.

"I do have a name, believe it or not." I spat, ignoring how she had begun to run her fingers over the small muscles that bulged beneath the skin of my arm.

"William Sherlock Scott Holmes," Pearl's tongue darted in and out of her mouth like a lizard, "I have been informed that you go by Sherlock?"

"Indeed," I growled, "Are you going to continue surveying me like a slab of meat at a butcher shop or are we going to get this over with?"

"Touchy, eh? Well I suppose there is no reason to delay, now is there? Let's get started."


	2. Chapter 2

John

I gaped, open-mouthed at the mirror that had been placed in front of me a few seconds before. The person staring back was not me, not in any way, shape, or form. Only several hours ago, I was myself, but now, I don't even know. I had been taken to a cold metal room and given what the stylists called a 'make-over'. A 'make-over' was apparently when someone thought that you were inadequate as yourself, so you have to change everything to become better. Well, that was what I had gathered from that horrific experience. My stylist, Skye, was in fact a psychopath. The hungry eyes and eery smile kind of gave it away. I was becoming more and more concerned for my own safety each minute. Skye had ordered his underlings to completely erase my features with white powder, only for him to go in a draw them himself. Jenny was standing beside me, equally shocked and nervous. We were both dressed, head to toe, in black. I was wearing a charcoal dress shirt, bow-tie, slacks, and loafers. Jenny was wearing a knee length black dress, fishnets, and six inch stilettos. One might think that the Gothic attire wouldn't leave much of an impression, and unnerve people. That would be true, were it not for our faces. Our entire eye sockets were covered in coal dust, so it looked like we had black eyes, our lips had been slathered in midnight 'lip-stick'. The only color present were the crimson flames drawn across our jawline.

"You know, it's kind of sad really. How everyone gave up on fire after the Everdeen Era. They're so pretty." Skye commented to Molly's stylist, Ruby.

"Quite so, absolutely exquisite." she replied. Jenny rolled her eyes, obviously disappointed by the lack of pink. I grinned, and then Sally strode in.

"Ready? It's almost time to start!" she flashed a blinding smile, grabbing Jenny's and my arms, dragging us out to where the other Tributes were being kept. I swallowed nervously. This was the first time we were going to see them in person.

The room was gigantic. The large rounded ceiling was covered with intricate paintings of the Districts. Twelve carriages were lined up single-file, waiting for their passengers to board. Tributes milled around, occasionally commenting to anyone near. The District One carriage caught my eye, or rather, it's rider. The Holmes boy (what his name again?) stood, straight backed, by the horses. His long, spidery, fingers were petting the majestic white steed's noble snout. Whenever he blinked, I could catch a glimpse of his sparkling gold eye shadow. Holmes was wearing a form-fitting sherbert tank top, exposing his arms, which were covered in a dazzling variety of plastic gemstones. Lavender skinny jeans clung to his legs, ending at his ankles, so we could see a pair of bejeweled trainers. The most interesting thing that Holmes was wearing by far was the hat. It was very feminine in style, but still managed to go with everything else. The hat was peach fedora with a deep purple band. At least twenty different, all light-colored, feathers extended from the band, ranging in length from six inches to two feet. Three were so long, that they had bent over, and were now nestled among his charcoal curls.

"Hullo, Earth to John?" Jenny waved her hand in front of my face, breaking me out of that reverie.

"Oh, yes, um, where is our carriage?" I asked, standing on my toes to try and get a good look around.

"You were looking at Sherlock!" Jenny gasped, before covering her mouth with a manicured hand, obviously trying to stifle an onslaught of giggling.

"Who is Sherlock? Oh, the Holmes kid, I was most certainly not staring at him!" I fired back, definitely_ not_ thinking about Sherlock's full lips, and captivating eyes.

"Whatever you say Johnny-boy. I think I found our carriage." Jenny pulled me off to go stand next to the large black draft horses, which were snorting and stamping their hooves with impatience. Before long, an announcement instructed for us to take our places in the carriage, Jenny had a little difficulty, but we both managed to get up without embarrassing ourselves. A nervous breath hitched in my throat, and the doors opened, exposing us to the crowd.

Sherlock

It had taken every ounce of my willpower not to turn and meet John Watson's gaze when I first sensed him watching me. Most people stared at me a bit, I am a little odd looking, but it's usually a stare of hatred or dislike. That was twice in the past two days where someone has looked at me without loathing. Molly did it all the time, but only for a few seconds at a time, before her cheeks grew crimson and looked away. John though, this sandy haired doctor wannabe didn't look away for fear of shame or being caught. He was clearly shocked by my appearance. I was too, when I first saw myself. It really was ghastly attire; Mycroft would be at home watching and laughing at my ridiculous predicament. I too, had been somewhat, taken aback by the other Tributes clothing. It was an interesting costume, but didn't fit him, just as mine didn't fit me.

"Are you ready?" Molly squeaked, seeming intensely uncomfortable in the skimpy salmon dress that had been chosen for her.

"As ready as anyone can be who is about to face a crowd of people who could potentially save your life whenever you get stuck in a giant arena to battle twenty-three other children who want you dead." I deadpanned, shooting her my most intimidating glare. She blushed and looked down at her feet. When the announcement came on telling us to board the carriages, I scrambled up, offering my hand to Molly, who was struggling to get up, and remain decent in that dress of hers. I sucked in a deep breath as the doors opened, and the horses began trotting down the path. For several painful moments, the crowd was completely silent, glaring down at Molly and me. Then they burst into earsplitting cheers and clapping. What could possibly warrant such an explosive response was unknown to me. I was about to turn on my impassive 'higher than thou' face when I realized something. By acting likeable, people would sponsor me. Even if that were the entire point of the parade, that revelation switched something inside me. _Just play the game,_ I thought. Deciding that it was all or nothing, I fell into full charm mode. With a huge, cheeky grin on my face, I tipped my hat to the screaming crowd, whose response was even more enthusiastic than it had been before. I snatched a rose that had been thrown out of the air and slipped it between my teeth, pleased by the approving screeching from my new, primarily female, friends. Molly gaped at me, open-mouthed.

"Pick your jaw up off the floor," I whispered, waving, "You won't get sponsors by looking like a fish." She nodded, but still had an expression of concern and confusion on her face. No one had advised against it, I tossed my wretched hat into the stands. A young woman in the third row caught it, provoking wails of jealousy from her friends. I gave the young woman a wink, and she promptly fainted. I noticed, with a morbid delight, the chunky diamond ring occupying the ring finger on her left hand. Based on the rowdiness of the crowd behind me, James Moriarty and/or Clara Watson from district two were nearly as popular as I was. Not that I was intimidated by them, I just knew that Moriarty, at least, was going to give me trouble. When the horses had finally reached their destination, I was already tired of acting like I was a nice guy. Despite my exhaustion, I held the grin on my face, occasionally turning around making eye contact with members of the crowd. When President Snow had finally mounted the podium, the cheering people had fallen silent. Snow seemed way too old to me. I had heard he was old even during the Everdeen Era. When he had 'died' just to Katniss would feel in control. Then, years later, once she had had children and everything, he killed everyone as a 'precaution'. Still, the guy commanded my respect. The only other person I've met that was that good at faking their own death was me. I had done it several times back at home to escape my family. Eventually they found me, thanks to good ol' Mycroft.

"Welcome to the two hundred and twenty-first annual Hunger Games!" Snow boomed through his microphone, "And may the odds, be ever in your favor." Cue raucous cheering from the crowd.

"It's not that actually are, are they?" I yelled up at Snow. He had obviously heard me, because the look he shot me would probably disconcerting if he could actually do something to me, "Because, we are going to be pitted against each other in an epic battle of dignity depravation and erosion of honor. Whenever you get home everyone says, 'yay for you, you killed a bunch of innocent children, you must be so happy'." My voice raised in volume as I spoke, until I was screaming at the president. Snow scowled back at me, anger rolling of him in sheets.

"You do not know what is-" he started.

"Best for Panem? Perhaps not, but I sure as heck know that the culling of innocent people is not what 'the best' is. Why do you even call yourself a president? This society is in no way anything that could even be compared to a democracy." I was angry too now, and it showed. The audience was gaping at me, but their eyes were not the blank, stupid, orbs they have always been. Understanding sparked just behind a rainbow of irises. The people were really, _listening._

John

Sherlock's display of an opinion had started out as a cheeky remark. Now it had turned into a full scale attack on the president himself. You could almost feel the hatred radiating from Snow. I think I even saw the rose pinned to his lapel wilt, a little. I cringed at the fate that was almost certainly going to befall him. That was the fourth time this individual had shocked me. First was when I saw him on the Reaping film. He was so detached and impassive. Then he was covered in glitter and sparkles, which was just weird. Then he was something of a ladies man, even though it was only for a minute, I knew had already had an amazing support base. Now, he is arguing with the freaking _president_ over politics. And the audience was actually nodding along to what he was saying! I always thought that the Capital freaks just followed Snow around blindly like sheep, but now, I don't even know. Snow waved his hand and several buff guards dragged him from the area. Snow straightened his tie, and continued on with his speech. All I could look at was the half empty carriage, it's one remaining occupant shifting nervously and pulling her dress down her thighs.

Skye came rushing over and encompassed me in a bear hug. Ruby did the same for Molly.

"You all did a wonderful job out there!" the latter of which cooed soothingly, patting us both on the head. Sally arrived, strangely out of breath and holding a letter, which she shoved into her pocket.

"Snow was very displeased with Holmes's behavior, he banned mentors this year precisely because that boy was going to be trouble!" She exclaimed, panting.

"I didn't hear what he was saying, but the audience seemed to like it." Skye commented, stroking his nonexistent goatee.

"I didn't hear him either, but Snow didn't." Ruby shuddered, as if repulsed by something unbeknownst to us. Jenny frowned, and gave me a look that said, _I agreed with him._ I nodded, indicating that I had as well. We both slowly snuck away while the adults were talking.

"That was awfully brave and amazingly stupid, what Sherlock did." Jenny observed once we had arrived at District Twelve's rooms.

"I know, luckily though, Snow can't do anything until he is in the games. I'm not even sure he will do anything though. That would just show how opposed his is to anyone who contradicts him." I reasoned, hoping beyond irrational hope that the young man I've never even spoke to would win the games. Just so everyone could see the look on Snow's face when he has to bow to him. Jenny nodded, seeming to be comforted by this.

"You know, even though Sherlock got in huge trouble over that, I am kinda glad someone finally had the courage to do it." She whispered, leaning her head against my shoulder. I rubbed her arm, and she soon fell asleep. Placing a pillow in my lap, I eased Jenny's head down so that she rest upon that and not my bony shoulder.

"Goodnight Jenny," I pressed a kiss to her forehead and leaned back on the couch. I felt oddly protective of the little twelve year old now. It was if she was my little sister. Not that I needed anyone else to take care of, but I silently swore to protect her to the best of my abilities. Which wasn't going to do much against a machete wielding maniac. Still, I was going to try, for Harry. Even if I knew I wasn't going to win the games, I was going to die protecting those who are important to me. Futile, in a game of death and betrayal, but no one had hope for such things, no one would win.

Sherlock

I was already tired from my argument with the president, but then, I had to endure a two hour lecture from Hope before I was permitted to sleep. 'HOW COULD YOU DO THIS!?' was still ringing in my ears when I pulled the comforter over my head in a comforting cocoon of warmth. Snow had expressed in every nonverbal way possible that he wanted me dead. That only spurred my almost non-existent urge to stay alive. Sure, the only thing for me back at home was my family. If you could even call them that, and more training. I could be one of the mentors, implying that Snow would lift the ban on them after this year's games. I was angry at him too. He Snow was so incompetent that he didn't even consider that someone would openly question his society since the Everdeen Era. Only an idiot would be so over-confident to believe that their plan was flawless. There are always cracks, no matter how small or insignificant, they can be exploited. I will exploit the cracks and holes in Snow's little world. It will be easy, there are so many. I will bring this nation to its knees, and then, I will rebuild it as something new. Something where meaningless slaughter is not average, something where starvation and cruelty is not the norm. Something better that it is now. Something good.


	3. Plz leave me alone you stupid Capital

John

The next few days passed in a blur of angry glares and flung weapons. God I hated the training sessions. I hated being forced to talk to and ally myself with the people who were going to kill me in the near future. I don't understand the purpose of the group training, but I did it anyway. Sally had advised us to not show of our strengths, to try something new and learn survival skills. Survival skills were the only thing I actually already knew. I walked quietly across the training floor, trying to seem invisible in the crowd. Jenny clung to my arm, as she had the entire time we were here. I surveyed the room, yesterday and the say before that I had devoted to refreshing my memory on knot making and plant identification. It was a bit boring, so today I was ready to train myself with a weapon. Archery turned out to not be my thing, sword fighting was awful, I could throw a weight pretty far, and then I spotted the handgun. It was just sitting there, nobody else was using it, probably because it was very rarely included in the games.

"Hey, Jenny, why don't you check out the basket weaving station." I shooed the little girl away, and practically ran to where the deadly black asset lay unassuming on its side. The gun fit smoothly in my hand, as if it were tailored to my palm. With a quick breath of excitement, I pulled the trigger, and nothing happened. Again and again the little device yielded nothing that could be attributed to success.

"What the," I muttered.

"You have to turn the safety off before you shoot," a deep baritone voice whispered into my ear. I jumped away, frightened by the Tribute standing next to me, "Sherlock Holmes, District One."

"John Watson, District Twelve." I extended my hand in greeting, oddly satisfied to finally have a proper meeting with the enigmatic fellow. Sherlock nodded as if he already knew, dark curls bouncing. He took the gun from my hand and properly demonstrated how to undo the safety, before shooting at the target. I gaped at the perfect bulls-eye Sherlock had just shot.

"Do not worry John, I'm sure you'll get the hang of it, unless you are as stupid as you appear to be. I surely hope not." Sherlock furrowed his brow, analyzing my face.

"What?" I took a step back away from Sherlock, frightened by the sudden scrutiny I was being subject to.

"Hope your sister won't be too sad if you lose the games." With that, Sherlock waltzed off to the knot tying station. It took me a few seconds to finally close my mouth after the young man had left. Once I had managed to gather myself, I turned my attentions to the gun. Following Sherlock's instructions carefully, I aimed at the target and fired. A small hole appeared on the outermost ring. Not that bad for your first time ever holding and shooting a gun, but nothing too special.

I spent the next hour shooting, and realized that I was actually getting better. By lunch I had gotten two bulls-eyes and gone through ten magazines. Jenny ended up having a panic attack when Mary Morstan, who was a bit pretty, had thrown a knife at her after feeling insulted by the way she talked about pink. Whatever that's supposed to mean. She was shaking slightly beside me, tugging her shirt collar that had been cut by the knife.

"I just said that I like pink, I said 'I really like the color pink, it's to bad that boys don't wear much because it's a girly color', and she just threw a knife at me." Jenny shuddered.

"I dunno' why she threw a knife at you," I sighed, biting into the sandwich I had gotten for lunch, Jenny huffed, opening her bag of crisps. A boy who couldn't have been older than seventeen sat down across form us. Gray hair was already sprouting around his ears.

"Hello, I'm John." I extended a hand, trying to make conversation.

"Greg, but call me Lestrade." Lestrade shook my hand, before staring blankly at his plate, "Got anyone in mind for an ally?"

"Not really, the only other Tribute I've talked to besides you and Jenny was that Sherlock guy." _You know the one with the wonderful hair and cheekbones? _

"Philip Anderson obviously wants to team up with me, but I don't like him much. Bit of a snake that one is." Lestrade frowned, casting a worried glance over his shoulder, "That Holmes is a queer one. Quite the ladies man during the parade, so I tried to talk to him. Gave me the weirdest look." I nodded, Sherlock's façade of charm during the parade was obviously fake once you actually talked to him.

Sherlock

I bit my lip until the distinctive, metallic, taste of blood could be sensed. Today was the day private training sessions were held, I wasn't nervous, but Molly's constant twitching and fidgeting was beginning to become irritating. Luckily, I was the male tribute from District One, so I go first. Molly had wished me luck about a hundred times on several different occasions. I told her that luck did not exist, and was simply a construct of imagination employed to make ourselves feel better.

"Sherlock Holmes." the speaker intoned. I stood up, brushed off my pants and began to approach the door.

"Good luck!" Molly breathed nervously, I smirked to myself and strode into the room.

"Proceed Mr. Holmes," the Gamekeeper sniffed pretentiously, waving a hand for me to start. Anger boiled in my stomach, and I completely abandoned my plan to show my fencing and archery skills.

"Oh, I suppose I am expected to respect a man having an affair with his neighbor, your wife would be so displeased with you. Not to mention how you have been neglecting one, no two tabby cats and a small terrier. I suppose maybe it is how you refuse to talk to your mother on religious grounds and your sister is a raging alcoholic." I spat, pleased with the rush deductions bring me. The Gamekeeper gawked at me, grip tightening on his wine glass.

"How could you possibly- I mean, I have no idea what you are talking about!" he shouts back at me, a small vein popping from his fore head.

"Oh, if you insist. Your shoes, they are very expensive, your nicest pair probably, the tread is worn, but you don't seem to be the kind of person to do much walking. Though, the shoes are new and based on the way you are sitting you have acquired several blisters from walking in them. The wear on the tread indicates more pressure than usual focused on the front part, so you were walking around your job on your toes? Unlikely, more possible that you had been sneaking, trying to be quiet. The wear also suggests that it was only for short distances. Your ring finger, the knuckles are unusually red and calloused, so you have removed your ring often, for whom? So that combined with the shoes implies affair with a neighbor or someone in the near vicinity. The cats and the dog, three distinctively different types of hair on your pant leg. All in the same area, but the cat hair is only on your pant leg where both have been rubbing against you. The dog's hair is also present in your lap. There are nearly faded bite-marks on your hands. The pets have been biting you. Since you seem to be a strict man they are most surely trained, but neglected because you have been spending late nights at work, judging by the bags under your eyes it's been about a month since they've been properly fed. Your necklace, it is an old cross. Likely to be an heirloom, but has been neglected in past years. Not by you because the polish is fresh. So it was your mother then. She wasn't religious so you refuse to speak with her. There is a whiskey stain on the left sleeve of your jacket. The wine in your glass is barely touched so you don't drink. The stain is recent and was hastily dried with the pink handkerchief in your pocket. Your name, Julias, is written on the side. The handwriting is definitely that of a woman between the age of twenty and thirty. It was probably a gift from her, you love it but someone just wiped the whiskey off your arm with it. Probably a sister, probably a drunk. Am I wrong?"

"No, no you're absolutely right, how in heck did you manage to do all that?" the Gamekeeper closed his mouth staring at me oddly.

"This has been a most interesting visit! Good day to you all." I tipped an imaginary hat in their direction and swaggered out of the room.

Hope had not at all been pleased though. She lectured me for, what now, the third time? I just sat there nodding and muttering apologies and promises I had no intention to keep.

"Do you understand?" Hope barked.

"Yes ma'am. It won't happen again." I gave my most charming smile. She nodded, looking less angry.

"Yeah, that was what you said when you told of the president." Hope sounded defeated, all of the previous cheer had been drained from her dainty figure, "The scores are about to be shown. Better get to the living room." I jumped out of my chair and trotted over to the telly. I waited impatiently through the introduction, only glancing away from the screen when Molly joined me on the couch.

"Now, the male tribute from District One, Sherlock Holmes, with a score of… twelve!? What the!?" The news anchor gasped, and the room went dead silent.

"How?" was all Molly could manage, "That, that's the highest score you can get!"

"Yes, I know."

John

I managed to get out with a respectable score of eight. Poor Jenny only got a three. But Sherlock, good god. Sherlock bloody Holmes came out with a freaking twelve! That was the highest score ever; he broke Katniss Everdeen's score of eleven with a freaking twelve! Now he was going to get serious sponsors, but in the games, he was going to become even more of a target. My own handgun skill paled in comparison to whatever it was that Sherlock did for the Gamekeeper. I couldn't help but feel slightly scared of the man. The interviews with Ceaser Flickerman, who, like Snow, was magically still alive after all of the years spent on the games, was tomorrow. I really need to make an impression on the crowd; else, I am dead meat. The only person who came close to Sherlock was Moriarty with a ten. Not quite as impressive, but good all the same. I knew that I was going to have to ally myself with one of them. Sherlock being my number one choice, but Moriarty would suffice if it came to that. An annoyingly strong headache was throbbing beneath my temples by dinner. Even Sally was surprised by my lack of an appetite.

"Come on John, at least have some soup, you need to get something down," Jenny coaxed a few spoonful's of chicken broth down my throat before I retired to bed wondering what I was going to do.

The next morning was spent being taught how to properly hold ourselves in a conversation, act politely, and properly play your angle. Sally and Skye had come to the agreement that I should be friendly, but witty. Jenny was advised to play the oh-I-am-so-nervous-I-hope-I-can-win-for-my-family pity evoking role. Once we had been properly schooled, Sally turned us over to our stylists. I hated the styling stuff. Skye and I just didn't see eye to eye on the whole 'fashion' thing. Apparently, eyebrow plucking and scalding water baths were a good thing in his world. Nevertheless, I found myself amazed at how he managed to completely change me into a more confident version of myself. The boy, well, a man really, in the mirror stared back at me, an arrogant smirk spreading across his- no, _my_ face. The only person that could possibly be comfortable in the deep crimson and charcoal suit would be him. Jenny had been similarly transformed. She smiled easily in a low-cut red satin gown covered in black lace.

"We look nothing like ourselves," she observed, staring into the depths of the mirror.

"No, but that's how you play and win the game. You don't be yourself, you be desirable," I tried to keep the melancholy note out of my voice, but to no avail. She sighed heavily, and followed Sally out of the room, signaling for me to keep up.

I shifted my weight from foot to foot, the line was so long. It felt as if was going to have wait for an eternity, my only companion being the anxious tick I had resorted to. The first person to go was Molly Hooper, the female from District One. She was sporting a light pink knee-length dress with small diamonds decorating the top. The cinched silk of her garment clung to breasts and hips that the poor girl simply didn't have, giving her an unhealthy, starved look.

"Well Molly, what are you liking here in the Capital?" Ceaser asked enthusiastically.

"Oh, well everything is just very wonderful." Molly replier entire interview continued on like this, Ceaser asking a question, Molly giving a simple and quiet answer. Her departure was met with a polite, but detached, round of applause. Next was the male Tribute, Sherlock. I couldn't help but smirk as he sauntered onto the stage with so much confidence it could be viewed as cocky. The crowd screamed it's welcome to the raven haired Tribute.

"Ah, the enigmatic Mister Holmes," Ceaser smiled, "We have all been looking forward to properly meeting you I'm sure." Several different noises of approval sounded from the audience.

"Oh, I am as well," a corner of Sherlock's mouth twitched with the promise of an arrogant smirk, "The Capital really is quite the place you know, very, delicious." The tip of a light pink tongue dipped out of the young man's mouth and wet his lips. I could see the people in the crowd fainting even though I was twenty feet away from a very small screen. His spokesperson and stylist had very clearly chosen for him to play the sexy angle. What with the skin tight royal purple_ silk_, shirt, with the top few buttons left flirtatiously undone. Not to sound weird, but Sherlock played the role surprisingly well.

"So, Sherlock, I find myself incredibly curious as to how you managed a score of twelve. However did you do it?" Ceaser asked, leaning forward in his chair slightly. Sherlock chuckled and tapped he side of his nose.

"Some things ought to stay secret, you know. I am not about to divulge my tricks." Sherlock gave a flippant wink to the front row. Ceaser looked slightly crestfallen at his lack of an answer.

"Well, I had to ask. Is there anyone special back at home?" the older man grinned, seeming pleased by the surprised look on Sherlock's face.

"Ah, no, actually," Sherlock cast a look of embarrassment, little pink splotches appearing on his cheeks, that was entirely too lovely of a shade for me to stand. The crowd ate it up, catcalls echoing from nearly everywhere in the stadium.

"That can't be true, handsome, charming guy like you," Ceaser chided, "Well I hope you have all had a wonderful time here speaking with this years, undoubtedly, favorite Tribute. I noticed how no one had spoken about his little outburst with the president, but quickly forgot about it, dismissing the idea that the event held any long term importance. Sherlock descended the steps back to where he rest of the tributes were, his eyes locking with mine a second longer than would be considered a passing glance. My stomach did a weird sort of flip, and I struggled to hide the blood heating my cheeks. Who would ever notice me?


End file.
